Free Expiration Day by William Campbell Powell Page A

spend it. They clustered round her, and all but ignored her dowdy friend. A pile of possibles rapidly accumulated—this top, that skirt, and a selection of shoes. Er, Siân, you do only have one pair of legs, you know?
    Half an hour later I was beginning to wonder how much longer this was going to go on. The salesgirls continued their fluttering about Siân, offering this and that for her approval.
    I sighed deeply.
    One of the salesgirls heard me, and to my surprise turned and met my eye.
    â€œWas that boredom, miss? Or exclusion? If you’re bored, I can’t help you. But if you’d like me to find you something that’s right for you, then just say.”
    â€œI don’t know. Both. To me, clothes are just … clothes. It seems a lot of fuss, just to keep warm. But Siân’s different. She’s…”
    â€œShe’s older? Got a different figure to you? Yes, she has. But I can still help you be you. It’s something your parents can’t do.”
    She was good. My elbows and knees were still the elbows and knees that had been so awkward, dancing to the Slade tribute band. Literally the same, for I’d not grown in all that time. But she found a few items that weren’t childish, yet didn’t demand teenage curves I didn’t possess. Blacks, to match my hair. I thought she might suggest reds to go with it, which I’d already decided would look cheap, but she was wiser than that, and found a skirt and a matching blouse subtly streaked with silver-gray. It made me think of a web—Oxted’s web—which somehow appealed.
    Siân looked briefly across, and nodded, approvingly. Her own shopping was nearing completion, and five minutes later she joined us, with a selection of carrier bags in her hands.
    â€œCan’t decide?” she asked.
    I showed her my choices. A couple of tops, a skirt, and a pair of trousers, all themed black and silver.
    â€œBut I can’t afford them all—my allowance won’t stretch that far—and I don’t know what to leave out.”
    We had an argument then. Siân’s solution was simple; she’d buy for me what I couldn’t afford. For my part, I was trying to be noble, the nobility of the poor. But I really wanted that outfit. The salesgirl was right; it was a part of becoming me, and I couldn’t fight that. And it fitted my plans.
    I walked out of the shop, dressed in black and silver, with more bags under my arm.
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    I looked at my watch. It was nearly time.
    â€œSiân. I’ve got a confession to make.”
    She looked at me, alarmed.
    â€œI’ve not been to London like this, you know, without grown-ups. And I thought, it’d be a chance to, well, meet someone. A friend. From my holidays, a couple of years back.”
    â€œA boy, you mean?”
    I nodded, blushing.
    â€œJohn.”
    â€œOf course. I should have guessed. Have you arranged something, then?”
    â€œSort of. He’s waiting for my call. But if you’ve got other plans…”
    She was smiling gently.
    â€œCall him. Where shall we meet?”
    â€œHe said he’d meet us for lunch. There’s a café he knows, a few streets away. It’s safely in the Green Zone and it’s not too expensive, he says. It’s called Antonio’s.”
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    Antonio’s had once been Italian—pasta and pizza, but had evolved into something not quite so pigeon-holeable. It was darker inside, blinds drawn, and partitions to keep out any daylight through the doors. It felt like we’d shifted seamlessly in time to the evening.
    It managed to hint at elegance and exclusivity, yet an exclusivity that was not based simply on wealth. You, it seemed to say, are the kind of customer I want, because you know who you are. You have style and wit, it said, and you are welcome.
    And at the end farthest from the door there was a stage, where a band was starting to set